


Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight

by OutlawQueenLuvr



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 02:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12334056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutlawQueenLuvr/pseuds/OutlawQueenLuvr
Summary: Regina Mills doesn’t know how she got here. When they went from midnight hookups, workday distractions, and their no-sleepover rule to staring into his blue eyes from across the foyer--the last moments of moonlight bleeding into the early hours of morning, illuminating his face in the shadows.





	Goodnight, Sweetheart, Goodnight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 11 of Spooky OQ - Monster. 
> 
> As well as the birthday gift I wrote for sometimesangryblackwoman 
> 
> x-wishes-on-fallen-stars-x has influenced a new style of writing in me, and we’ve been spending a lot of time together binging Criminal Minds and talking story ideas for the last several months. So. Take that as you will. This is for all the people who want more horror stories in their lives.

 

_ Regina doesn’t know how she got here.  _

 

When they went from midnight hookups, workday distractions, and their no-sleepovers rule to waking up to the quiet snoring and slow rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps beside her, the morning sun warming her cheeks and something niggling in her chest making her palms sweat.    
  
Robin had packed an overnight bag, arrived on her doorstep at half-past nine for a little wine, a little flirting, the passing of conversation back and forth while he rubbed the inside of her thigh as they were lying in her bed. She was telling him about a Bernini she saw in college that made her want to sit and sketch and watch people on the steps of the High Museum all day--marble goddesses that sucked all the oxygen from the room, and made her go weak at the knees--when he had gently started nibbling on her earlobe, chastely kissing the side of her neck while whispering into her skin. “Keep talking, lovely.”   
  
But how could she with the way his hands spread warmth through her veins and made her insides feel liquid like honey.    
  
“I think we’re done talking for awhile,” she had said, gasping as he sucked a little harder at her pulse point and then rolled them so she was straddling his hips. Arousal flushed her cheeks a shade of crimson. God how she loved that, the feel of him, the way his hands roamed her body like he was praising the divine. 

 

She’s never been terribly religious, but the way he looks at her makes her feel positively sinful and delicious like he’s waiting for permission to devour her body and soul.

 

_ That’s not how he’s looking at her now though.  _

 

He’s eager but slow now, attentive and thoughtful, but teasingly playful enough that he has her panting beneath him in no time at all. Her blouse and bra are on the floor, and she is drinking in the wine-tinged taste of his tongue. Robin groans into her mouth and grinds his erection a little bit more eagerly between her legs. 

 

“You comfortable, beautiful?” His breath tickles the hairs at the nape of her neck. 

 

She  _ uh-huh _ s and tightens her grip in the sheets beneath her, anticipation pooling in her belly as he trails his hot breath across her skin. His tongue swirling over her breast, and then he sucks a nipple into his mouth and grazes his teeth across her in that way that makes wetness pool between her legs. She feels alive, like a live wire begging to spark with each press of his lips against her, with each grind of his hips that’s not creating enough friction because of layers of jeans and her thong and his boxer briefs. 

 

“You’re wearing too many clothes.” Robin seems to have the same idea; he shifts down on the bed so he can shimmy her out of her jeans and thong in a couple jerky motions. He practically trips trying to get his jeans off; her socks are still on her feet. They’re white with little zebras on them, her socks, and for whatever reason they make her laugh when she sees them. Robin is shoving his boxers past his knees when she starts snickering. “What’s so funny?”

 

“Nothing,” she says, shaking the thought from her head, and then groping her breasts while she waits for him to undress and join her back in bed. The pads of her fingers are soft, she used a grapefruit sugar scrub before he came over tonight, and her palms feel silky smooth, as close as she’ll probably get to Mother’s  _ For God’s sake, Regina. You’re a lady, not a ranch hand. Take better care of your skin  _ standards of approval. She’s discovered over the last several weeks that Robin loves this scrub and the subtle sweet, tangy taste of grapefruit across her body. She gropes her breasts a little harder and sighs, drawing Robin’s attention. His gaze zeros in on her right nipple pinched between her thumb and forefinger. 

 

He’s naked now, and it doesn’t escape her that his erection is leaking precum and jerking slightly--never failing to rise to the occasion. She chuckles to herself (men are so easy), bites her lower lip, and grins, motioning for him to  _ get over here _ . 

 

Once he’s close enough, she pulls him back down on top of her. 

 

There are many things she loves about Robin. He’s kind, thoughtful, loyal to a fault, she even loves the way he goes toe-to-toe with her whenever they start arguing about whether or not Sansa Stark is a petulant child or the smartest player in all of Westeros. They’re not sure who’s won that argument yet, but he’s stubborn just like her, and she loves that about him. Loves that after a fight, he’s sweet, quick to make sure she knows he still adores her. Even when she’s a smartass. 

 

But right now, right now, she loves that Robin is a generous lover. He’s not the biggest she’s ever had, or the most adventurous, but he’s fucking considerate and loves bringing her pleasure. 

 

And she  _ loves _ the ways he brings her pleasure.

 

:.:

  
  


Regina is almost there, can feel that warm, building ecstasy deep in her belly with every push of his hips, and thrust of his cock inside her. She is so close, so so so close. Tears well at the corners of her eyes, and heat flushes her skin, and she can almost taste the mind-blowing orgasm she’s about to have. Feels it in the way her muscles clench around his cock every time he says, “You’re so bloody gorgeous,” in the way her abs are shaking, in the way she is aching to fucking come, begs him, “Don’t stop, please pl---eeease oh God-- don’t sto---”

 

“Ow, fuck!” Robin seizes up and roughly rolls off of her. She’s groaning and panting, trying to catch her breath and not be too disappointed. “ _ Fuckffuckcramp _ !”

 

Reallllly trying not to be disappointed. She was seconds away from orgasmic bliss; she’s tempted to rub it out super quick but that feels wrong with Robin clutching his calf and grimacing. So instead, she says, “You need water.” Pushing sweat-slicked hair out of her face, she sits up to get out of bed. Orgasms will have to wait. 

 

“Wait--”  He grabs her elbow before she can stand. “I’ll get it. Lie back, babe. Need to walk it out a bit, I think.” 

 

She frowns. She can get the water. She’s not the one limping off the bed like a big baby. “Really, Robin. I can get it.”

 

“Nah, it’s okay. See,” he says, grinning up at her and bending over to grab his boxers, as if to show her he’s a  _ Big Strong Man.  _ What a dork, she thinks, shaking her head. 

 

She laughs, and waves him off. “Then get me a glass too, please.”

 

He grins, his dimples deepen, and that flutter she’s been getting lately in the pit of her stomach whenever he looks at her like  _ this _ swirls around and makes her blush. 

 

“Anything for you, my queen.” He gives her a quick kiss on the lips, and then he’s gone. 

 

:.:

 

Minutes go by. She gets up to pee, puts on chapstick, and wipes away the smudged mascara under her eyes. When Robin is still not back from the kitchen after five more minutes, s he throws on an oversized shirt and pajama shorts from her dresser and calls out into the hallway. 

 

“Did you get lost?” She laughs and waits for him to reply, but his answer never comes. 

 

Slowly padding down the hallway, Regina stops just before crossing into the foyer. 

 

It’s too quiet. 

 

The air in her apartment is thick, snug against her sweat-slicked body like a second skin. It makes her itch. Her smile slips from her face, and her forehead scrunches up. 

 

She calls out more softly this time. “Robin?”

 

Nothing. 

 

The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, goosebumps pepper her skin, and she wraps her arms around herself. She can hear the tick, tick, tick of her grandfather clock in the living room. 

It’s August, the white, living room curtains are billowing like ghosts in the night air.  _ That window shouldn’t be open.  _ The smell of chrysanthemums blooming in her front porch garden boxes mix with something bitter and metallic.

 

Wrong. This all feels wrong. There’s this gut instinct that shouts  _ STOP! TURN AROUND!  _ But she can’t. Because she’s also thinking  _ Where’s Robin?  _ and her need to put her hands on him, to see that he’s alright, overpowers her instincts screaming at her to get the fuck out. 

 

She takes another step forward. Just one step. Then two. A third--the floorboards creak beneath her foot, and she’s cursing herself for not letting Robin fix that weeks ago when he had offered.  _ Okay, it’s fine. You can do this, Regina. Maybe he’s just being a dick and playing a prank. He loves pranks. He and David are always pranking you and Mary Margaret.  _ There’s another voice, one that travels up her spine and carries her father’s voice to her ear that’s yelling  _ GET OUT, SWEETHEART!  _

 

There is no time.

 

She doesn’t feel it at first, just the driving force of his arm as he sucker punches her in the stomach and knocks the wind out of her lungs, stealing her breath and making her struggle to get it back. It’s not until she looks down and sees the hilt of a knife sticking out of her lower abdomen, metal and slender, that the pain starts to eat away at her. A small river of blood stains her pajama bottoms, and when he yanks the knife out--its blade and his gloved fingers covered in her blood--she wants to scream, wants to cry, but she can’t. She can’t do anything except fall to her knees-- _ Crack! _ \--and clutch her abdomen, but it’s no use. 

 

Blood saturates her top; it’s warm and feels like water on her stomach. 

 

He calls himself The Doctor, or the media does, she read somewhere that that’s what they’re calling him--the man who breaks into people’s houses, tortures them, and then harvests their organs for only God knows what. That’s what they’re calling it--harvesting--but harvesting is what she does every September at Granny’s Apple Orchard in Blue Ridge. Picking the perfect bushel of Sweet Delicious so she can make homemade cider with toasted cinnamon sticks. 

 

The Doctor steps over her body and kneels down. 

 

“Hello. Aren’t you a sweet little thing?” He goes to caress the side of her face, but barely touches her temple before she’s swatting his hand away. The quick motion rips at her gut, she cries out and slams her eyes shut. 

 

This isn’t happening this isn’t happening. What’s happening…Robin--- her eyes snap open in horror. She turns toward the light. She didn’t see him before, with the way his body was hidden around the corner, but she sees him now, lying on the floor. He doesn’t look like her Robin, he looks like one of those marionettes her mother used to keep in the dining room cabinet; the ones that watched her with their dead eyes. 

 

Tears mingle with the bloody smudge at her hairline. She whimpers. 

 

“Ah-ah. Don’t move, sweet thing,” The Doctor says, standing and walking over to Robin’s body. There’s an open cooler with bloody fingerprints on it on the floor next to him. He pats the side of it. “It’ll be your turn soon enough.”

 

Regina quietly sobs, and wishes she could get up, get help. All she can do is close her eyes. 

 

:.:

 

When she opens them again, the room is a blur. Her mouth is dry, and her body feels numb. It takes her a minute to remember what’s happened. The wine, the laughter, the flirting, water, she wants water, Robin getting her water and--- 

 

She squints against harsh light. Too bright. Blinks. Opens her eyes again, head lolling to the side. Cool floor against her cheek. The room still a blur, except for him and his brilliant blue eyes. Brilliant blue eyes she’d started falling in love with, long before they went from being just friends to friends with starving hands and desperate kisses and this all-consuming need for each other. 

 

The room is a blur except for him and eyes that used to be a brilliant blue. Now they’re dull, vacant, staring lifelessly back at her. 

 

It’s still dark out, the room cast in shadows; light from the kitchen flooding the foyer and bathing Robin in a false warmth, his body jostling slightly. The Doctor is hunched over her boyfriend--boyfriend, she’s never thought of Robin as her boyfriend before--cutting into him and digging around in his insides. Blood is pooling around him on the hardwood floors, and still she cannot scream. 

 

It’s getting harder to keep her eyes open, to breathe, but she doesn’t want to leave Robin alone. He’s dead. He can’t feel anything. But she doesn’t want to leave him alone. When the Doctor comes for her again, she wishes she’d died first instead.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
